


Dog Days

by thorsodinsn



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsodinsn/pseuds/thorsodinsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The dog dances on its front paws, tail going faster and faster as she gets closer. It barks again once she’s standing in front of it and lets her rest a hand on its head. 'How did you get in here?'" || Frank finds the perfect person to help him care for his dog. || Post-Season 2. || Frank/Karen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days

Karen Page has gotten used to odd hours; she comes home when the moon is high, when the sky is speckled with stars, when the streetlamps buzz and flicker their yellow glow over cracked pavement. There are always a few stragglers: her neighbor, an elderly gentleman who always needs to grab a smoke at ten o’clock on the nose; the teenage couple across the street, trying to nab a few last minute kisses in the shadows before curfew. It’s predictable. Comfortable, even. Karen gathers up her files, stuffs them all in a manila folder that she tucks under her arm as she steps out of her car. She waves to her neighbor, who is snubbing out the last dying embers of his cigarette with the toe of his shoe.

“Nice night,” the old man says, and Karen smiles.

“Sure is,” she replies. The man nods to her, then turns and disappears inside.

Karen has also gotten used to balancing acts. She keeps her folder tucked under her arm and her coffee cup (the last of the day, and decaf- Ellison’s request) in her left hand, her purse hanging heavy from her right elbow as she flips through her key ring for her door key. The front door hasn’t yet swung shut behind her old neighbor—Karen slams her foot next to the door jam and lets the door thud dully against her shoe.

She squeezes into the hall, the door falling heavy behind her, and hurries to her front door. It takes a minute to get her key into the lock and then she’s tumbling through the threshold, dropping her purse to the floor and kicking off her shoes almost as soon as she gets inside. A sigh of relief. Another day done.

Karen stands there for a moment, eyes closed, back against the door. She takes a few deep breaths and guzzles down the last of her decaffeinated coffee. Then she moves into the kitchen. The folder slides into the table. The empty coffee cup is dropped into the trash. She swings open the refrigerator door, bends down as she searches inside.

A whine from across the room startles her then. Karen jumps, spins around, one hand shooting to her chest as if she catch her hammering heart.

The source of the sound as floppy gray ears and soft dark eyes. The dog is lying on an overstuffed bed in the middle of her living room. It sits up when it sees her, whining again and thumping its tail.

“Holy shit,” Karen breathes. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to calm her nerves as the dog studies her from across the apartment. It tilts its head, ears forward, and squeaks out a bark. “Holy shit,” Karen repeats. She lets the fridge close behind her as she takes a step forward. The dog stands. Tags around its neck, dangling from a black collar, jingle when it moves. “Okay,” Karen says, closing the space between them. The dog dances on its front paws, tail going faster and faster as she gets closer. It barks again once she’s standing in front of it and lets her rest a hand on its head. “How did you get in here, huh?”

She scratches the dog behind the ears and it happily licks her hand. Then, she notices that the animal is not the only new addition to her home. Behind its bed is a cardboard box overflowing with dog food, bags of treats, dog toys, a set of dog dishes, and a black leash to match the collar.

“Are you moving in?” Karen asks. The dog sits down as if to answer her question. She gives him one more scratch before reaching for the slip of paper folded on top of the box. It looks like it was torn out of a notebook, the edges scraggly. Blank in small, careful print fills the page.

_The dog’s name is Boss. I can’t bring him with me. I knew he’d be safe with you. He’s a good one, and he’ll look out for you. Do right by him for me. Don’t worry about food. I’ll keep you stocked. Be good to him._

The paper crinkles as the dog, Boss, sniffs eagerly at it. He whines, lays down, settles his big head on top of his front paws and lets out the saddest whimper Karen has ever heard. She settles her hand on the dog’s head.

She knows the writing well. She’d seen it on enough court documents, enough scraps of papers scrounged together for evidence. She’d been deciphering it for weeks.

“Damn, Frank,” she sighs. She can feel tears building in her eyes, heating up her throat, and she swallowed them back as best she good while massaging small circles against Boss’s head. She exhales deeply and peers down at the dog. Boss peers up at her with big brown eyes, ears perked up. “Alright,” she says. “Alright, Boss. I guess it’s you and me now.”

Karen stands, and Boss raises his head. She plants her hands on her hips and surveys the room. She considers going through the items Frank left for Boss in the box, but the thought is quickly overtaken by the much more urgent exhaustion she feels.

“Come on, Boss,” she says, already unbuttoning her blouse as she heads for the bedroom. At the sound of his name, Boss hurries to his feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

The dog pads after her, watching her intently as she sheds her clothes and tugs on her pajamas. Karen crawls into bed, Boss walking with her until she hops up onto the mattress and then sitting on the floor beside her. “Come on,” Karen urges, patting the empty space next to her. “Come on, you can come up.” Boss wags his tail, wiggles on his haunches, then leaps up. He is a scramble of paws and wet kisses and she can’t help but bust out a laugh at his genuine enthusiasm. “Good boy,” she says, petting him as he settles.

The dog turns in a circle one, two, three times before flopping down on the mattress. He settles his head on Karen’s belly, whining a little as he looks up at her. She pets his head again, plays with his ears.

“I bet he took good care of you,” Karen says. “You must miss him.”

Boss snuggles closer, as if he understands what she means and is seeking her comfort. She runs a hand along the soft fur on his back.

“It’s okay,” Karen soothes. “I miss him, too.”

She didn’t realize how much until she said it aloud. He’s hardly been in her life for more than a few months, but his absence has left a hollow she isn’t sure anyone else can fill. She swallows thickly, swallows past the ache in her chest and the burning on her skin where he’d last touched her wrist.

She thinks back to Frank’s note, left there on a pile of dog toys. How much had he spent on all that? She keeps scratching at the dog’s ears, and his head feels heavier on her as he starts to fall asleep.

Frank had been here. Frank had snuck into her apartment and left his dog. Frank trusts her, trusts her enough to hand over an animal he clearly cares deeply for, an animal with the strength and will to protect her the same way she knows Frank himself would. Boss muscles ripple beneath her palms as he shifts in his sleep, and she’s astounded that this dog feels as steady and sturdy as Frank himself. As if he’s an extension of Frank—a piece of him. And maybe that’s why Karen believes herself when she says, “He’ll come back.” She strokes Boss’s fur and the dog heaves a contented sigh and Karen murmurs softly, “He’ll come back.”


End file.
